


Oathbreakers

by October_rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:22:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy meet again at the Wall.</p><p>(originally started for the following prompt at the asoiaf kinkmeme: <i> Jon/Theon; hurt/comfort; can start as a dysfunctional relationship, but at some point anger and hate are replaced by quite different emotions</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Amid the rippling banners, the clinking of the heavy mail, the hooves thundering against the frozen ground, the host of Stannis Baratheon returned safely to Castle Black. The troops, led by the King himself, were slowly filling the courtyard, the breaths of riders and horses misting in the frosty air. 

“I knew my lord husband would triumph over his foes. Praise be to R'hllor!”

Queen Selyse's prayer, which Her Grace's entourage dutifully repeated, was promptly joined by Lady Melisandre. The red priestess raised her arms, the scarlet silks billowing about her frame like the tendrils of fire, and intoned, “Behold the might of the one true God, who grants strength to His loyal servants and shields them from the treacherous blows.”

Here, the crimson eyes looked pointedly at the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. _I owe you my life, my lady, but do not ask me to bow to your Lord of Light. I won't forsake the gods of my father._ Hence, heedless of whether his defiance would incur the divine wrath, Jon remained silent.

Truth be told, the matters of religious faith were currently the furthest thing from his mind. At that moment, family took precedence over everything else, and Jon was anxiously searching the crowd for the glimpse of a familiar silhouette.

Finally, he spotted a small figure swathed in a long cloak. _Arya._ Joy turned to surprise, however, as soon as the girl threw back the hood and revealed her pale face. Despite the fact that she was emaciated and older than he remembered her, Jon was nevertheless able to recognize Jeyne Poole.

All the questions as to why she was accompanying King Stannis's party disappeared when he noticed a man being escorted by the guards. For a lengthy while, Jon could only stare in stunned disbelief, trying in vain to make sense of the sight. _Impossible … He fled Winterfell with his sister …_ And yet his eyes were not deceiving him - an ironic twist of fate had indeed delivered Theon Greyjoy straight into Jon's hands.

Somewhere, the gods were surely laughing at the jape they had just played on their naïve, mortal pawns.

***

The chill in Donal Noye's quarters had suddenly become more acute, as Stannis Baratheon fixed the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch with a cold glare.

“Have it your way, Lord Snow. If you want to spare the turncloak's life, so be it, though only a fool would repay treason with mercy.”

Well accustomed by now to withstanding the royal wrath, Jon patiently held his ground.

“I have also been told that there is no greater punishment than being forced to live, Your Grace.”

“And because you have recently acquired a vastly superior perspective on both life and death, who am I to dissuade you from your folly?” The King shook his head in disgust. “At times I truly doubt your sanity, Snow.”

 _Were he present here, Bowen Marsh would be voicing similar sentiments and applauding you most enthusiastically, Your Grace._ Yet, since the failed mutiny, no one dared to question Jon's command. At least, not openly. Lady Melisadre's fires and ominous incantations, able to deliver a mortally wounded man back from the Stranger's doorstep, had proved very helpful in maintaining discipline in the ranks.

The rumours about the Lord Commander having the favour of R'hllor struck terror into many a heart. But Greyjoy was evidently not prone to cowering before vengeful gods and their alleged champions. Upon hearing Stannis's words, he offered Jon a taunting smile.

“I like your brand of justice, Snow. What other tortures are you going to inflict upon me? Will you sing me a lullaby? Feed me some northern delicacies and order me to sleep in a feather bed? Ask the red priestess to warm my sheets, or maybe do the honours yourself? I tremble at the merest thought.”

The tone was as mocking as ever, despite the fact that its owner was much the worse for wear. Heavy manacles bound his wrists, a deep cut marred the stubbly cheek, and the golden kraken decorating the doublet was barely visible underneath the accumulated grime and bloodstains.

Of course, such a blatant show of insolence was not to be tolerated: eager to redress any potential offence to his liege or Lady Melisandre, the King's guard pushed Greyjoy to his knees and yanked the captive's head back.

“Hold your vile tongue, scum.”

Instantly, Greyjoy tried to free himself from the grip of the gauntleted fingers. However, the struggle ceased when, interested by the commotion, Ghost padded over to the two men and brought his muzzle threateningly close to Greyjoy's throat. 

It would have been so easy – a snap of the sharp teeth, crushing muscle and bone, and Jon's murdered brothers could finally rest in peace … _No._ Fortunately, the temptation to succumb to the mindless bloodlust was brief, and Jon concentrated instead on the prisoner. 

What he read in Greyjoy's eyes was startling: with the spark of defiance extinguished, they were silently urging Jon to act on the impulse to avenge Bran and Rickon. _And give you the welcome oblivion, Greyjoy? I don't think so._

“Aye, you will taste all that the Wall has to offer, Greyjoy.”

“Am I to take the black, then? You may kiss my arse, bastard.”

Jon arched his eyebrow, “Black is too good for the likes of you. I won't have you for my sworn brother, Greyjoy. You will remain here as my hostage.”

It didn't take long for the fury to be rekindled; the sentence had Theon utter a foul curse and thrash anew in the knight's grasp. _What has enraged you more, Greyjoy? The return to the role you learned all too well during your childhood with the Starks, or that I have seen through your game?_

Ignoring the oaths reverberating in the room, Stannis Baratheon trained his dispassionate gaze on Jon.

“A rabid dog should be put out of its misery, not fed and petted. But, as I have said, it's your choice, Lord Snow. May the ghosts of your slain kin forgive you.”

***

To the unanimous astonishment, after having survived the confrontation with the Lord Commander, Theon Turncloak was freed from the chains.

The unexpected reprieve would have provoked more discussions, had other concerns not occupied the thoughts of the Castle Black inhabitants; the visions in the flames grew progressively disturbing, and Lady Melisandre cautioned that the clash with the fearsome enemy was drawing nigh.

And so the King's men, the free folk, the Night's Watch brethren and the ironborn captured by Stannis at Deepwood Motte, were waiting for the impending attack, with hunger and sleeplessness as their constant companions. In such circumstances, tension ran high and not a day went by without some muttered threats or angry scowls.

Still, the fact that no blood had as of yet been spilled was a miracle in itself. Apparently, the prospect of battling the White Walkers and their undead thralls sufficed to lessen the antipathy between the four diverse groups manning the Wall. Jon was grateful for the tempers kept in check, as there was no shortage of worries preying on his mind. The foremost of such problems were the constantly draining provisions. Would the meagre rations sustain the people till the supplies were shipped from the south? On the other hand, the repayment of the loans for which the food was to be bought and transported was probably going to span generations.

The exorbitant sums owed to the scrupulous bankers of Braavos were of no importance, however, if the lives of women and children were at stake – after all, the Night's Watch was sworn to protect the helpless, not hoard the gold. And at shielding the innocent, Jon feared, he and his brothers might soon fail. So far, no word had been received as to whether Tormund Giantsbane had managed to save the wildlings from the doomed Hardhome. Meanwhile, recuperating from his brush with death, Jon could do naught but refuse to seal the gates and pray for Tormund's mission to end in success. 

The recovery was not progressing smoothly, alas, and the burden of duty was all the heavier with the disconcerting changes the Lord Commander was observing within himself. Ever since the red priestess had invoked her god to mend the fatal wounds, Jon's dreams had been filled with raging flames, the fever in his blood refusing to abate at dawn. To make matters worse, the memories of his lost family haunted the waking hours, yet what had truly exacerbated his inner turmoil was the presence of Theon Greyjoy. The old adage about keeping one's enemies closer than friends was surprisingly accurate, for the thoughts about Ned Stark's former ward were gradually supplanting those about Jon's loved ones. 

A common traitor Greyjoy was, so why was Jon pondering on the ironborn's betrayal of the Starks? Perhaps because with every new bit of the information about what had actually transpired, the 'turncloak' seemed too narrow a term to properly describe Greyjoy. And Ygritte had taught Jon not to trust initial assumptions.

Curiosity had largely influenced the decision not to execute his hostage on the spot. Ramsay Bolton's letter about Stannis's defeat had contained only lies and empty threats; the bride, 'Arya Stark,' had turned out to be a poor, terrified girl, forced to masquerade as the high lord's daughter. So was there more to Greyjoy's story than one might have suspected? Jon's interest had been further piqued when, prior to surrendering the prisoner to the Lord Commander, the King had mentioned that Greyjoy had earned himself a swing of the sword, not the hempen rope reserved for the oathbreakers. 

The honourable death was to be the reward for slaying the Bastard of Bolton, His Grace had explained. Stern to a fault, Stannis was nevertheless just in his weighing of sins and noble deeds. Thus, as Lady Asha's men had helped him reclaim Winterfell, he had pardoned the ironborn. However, in Theon's case, the crimes were too grave to grant clemency.

Well, His Grace's plans to have Ned Stark's son serve justice to Balon Greyjoy's heir had been foiled. And at least two people were content with Jon's ruling: Jeyne Poole and Lady Asha.

The first had come to his quarters quiet and frightful. Sitting on the very edge of the chair, she was shooting anxious glances at Satin, so Jon had to ask his steward to leave. As soon as the two of them had been alone, Jeyne told the Lord Commander about Ramsay's reign, terminated with one, well-aimed blow of Greyjoy's blade.

By the time the gruesome account had been finished, Jon could understand why Jeyne considered Theon Greyjoy and King Stannis her heroes. 

Lady Asha had been far less enthusiastic about her brother's role in Stannis's victory at Winterfell.

“Theon didn't fight for His Grace.” Her mild tone took on a hard edge. “You see, my poor, deluded brother is tormented by an incurable affliction of the mind. The same malady which almost made him stay at Winterfell, when his plan to seize the damned place turned awry.”

Another tale had then been spun, about a dutiful son, trying to win his father's favour by conquering the heart of the North. Yet ambition and greed had not been enough to hold Winterfell. Eventually, Greyjoy had heeded Asha's warning and retreated to Deepwood Motte, but not before refusing to put his prize to the torch. The Lord Commander listened on, unable to shake off a suspicion that there was more to Theon's desire to keep the seat of House Stark unscathed than a mere whim. The prince of Winterfell… Unbidden, Stannis's offer to erase the taint of illegitimacy came back to Jon. To rule from Ned Stark's castle as the rightful heir would have been a fulfilment of a childhood dream … and tantamount to betrayal. 

“The night the tidings about the Young Wolf's death reached us, Theon took a flagon of the strongest mead and shut himself up in his chambers, instead of celebrating together with my men. Now, did he drink himself into a stupor out of joy or grief, I wonder?”

Clearly, Asha believed the latter had been the cause. “You have acquired yourself an oddity, my Lord Commander – a kraken thinking itself a wolf. A toy so broken the ironborn didn't want it on the Seastone Chair, nor could King Stannis find a better use for the sad creature than to give you its head. You, however, declined His Grace's gift.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Not out of misguided compassion, my lady. I prefer your brother's head, empty though it is, attached to his neck, for one simple reason: broken or not, he's not an entirely worthless tool. His one talent is killing, and I intend to take advantage of this skill.”

An enigmatic smile curved Asha's lips. “What about Theon's knack for deceit? You would do well to remember that as well, Lord Commander.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a bright splatter of red on the blade. 

Slowly, his gaze travelled along the edge of the sword, up to the iron-clad fingers clasped around the hilt. More dots staining the gauntlet and the vambrace, the breastplate and the pauldron, though against dark steel the crimson was much harder to discern. 

A few droplets had landed on the cheek as well – here, they contrasted vividly with the pale skin, almost to the point of appearing obscene. He felt an icy shiver wash down his spine at the sight.

“We meet again, my prince.” Sharp teeth flashed in a smile, a tongue snaked out to moisten the thick lips. “I have a gift for you. Look.”

The folds of the cloak parted, and now he could see clearly what the pink fabric had been hiding, what the other hand was holding. Bile rose to his throat in an instant.

“I knew you'd come for your whore.”

Long hair that used to glimmer with gold was wound around the fist. Nothing of the gold shone through, however – the strands had lost their lustre, soaked as they were in dull, deep red. He glanced lower, forced himself to look more closely, to comprehend ...

“She's prettier like that, isn't she?”

Veins pulsing in raw meat, every familiar hue and feature obliterated, peeled away as if they had never existed. And in the midst of that destruction, her eyes staring up at him with mute appeal. 

_You're hurting me … M'lord, please stop … Let me go … Don't ..._

He'd been deaf to her protests that night, too intent on losing himself in lust. Afterwards, he couldn't bear to look at her. _It was my right. You were mine to take whenever and however I wanted._ And yet, no matter how often he'd repeated those words to himself, they always rang hollow. 

Now, the memory felt like a punch to the gut. _Forgive me. Oh gods, please forgive me._ Fear and revulsion glinted in her eyes, as he took a tentative step towards her. _Please ..._

“Too late.”

The fist tightened in her hair, the sword descended. Her gaze, rapidly dimming to emptiness, kept him chained to the spot, while red was gushing out, drenching his clothes, coating his face, pouring into his nostrils, throat …

_Forgive me._

He fought the waves that threatened to drown him … and surfaced, blinking in the darkness, his limbs covered in cold sweat and tangled in heavy furs. _A dream._ He drew in a shuddering breath. _Just a dream._

Dazed, his muscles still trembling, he stumbled out from the bed, crossed to the window, and opened the shutters. Ignoring the bite of freezing air, he peered out at the moonlit yard. 

Long shadows lay on the snow. Not a hint of movement; all the colours, save for black and white, seemed to have been leeched away, giving the scene an eerie, unreal quality. However, as his gaze swept once more over the dark outlines of the buildings, he caught a glimpse of a faint orange glow.

The candles were flickering in the rooms behind the armory – for some reason, the lord commander was standing vigil as well. _Which ghosts are keeping you company?_ Robb, Maester Luwin, ser Rodrik … So many ghosts, he had no doubt some of them visited both him and Snow. But other spectres belonged to none but him, and dogged his steps wherever he went. _The boys and their mother, Bolton's bastard, Kyra ..._ He thought about her torn face, about the cruel fingers pulling at her hair, about the flayed man etched on the breastplate, and felt his stomach churn with dread.

_Are you afraid of your ghosts, Snow?_ The light kept fluttering, and his eyes followed every tiny burst and wane. The terror slowly abated; in its place, anger and bitterness stirred from their slumber. 

Theon leaned against the window frame and stared at the wavering candlelight for a very long time.

*** 

The guard sent him a long, hard look before opening the door.

Theon stepped inside. Perched atop the back of a chair, a raven bobbed its head, let out a cry and flopped its wings, as if upset by the intrusion. Otherwise, the room was silent. “What do you want with me, Snow?”

Clad all in black, his back straight, Snow stood beside the table, where a bow had been laid out. “It's high time you started being useful.” He nodded towards the weapon. “Take it.”

Theon approached the table, ran his thumb along the curve of the longbow. No fancy ornaments – just solid yew, with leather strap wrapped around the middle to prevent the grip from sliding. The bow, he noted with approval, was well-kept, its bowstring already waxed and fitted into the notches. 

“Weapon for a hostage? Smart move, Snow.”

Snow didn't answer; his grey eyes gave nothing away as he studied Theon's face. _So much like old Stark's eyes._ The stray thought made Theon snort. As a boy he'd done many foolish things, some of them deserving praise, most scolding, in the vain hope that Lord Stark would gaze at him with anything save that calm indifference.

At least, he'd gotten a sliver of outright hate from Snow. Theon recalled his previous visit in this chamber, when Stannis had brought him to the lord commander and his fate was to be decided. And yes, for a split second pure rage had flared up in Snow's eyes, nearly breaking through the cool reserve. _He wants me dead,_ Theon had realized, the direwolf's jaws inches away from his throat. _So kill me. Be done with it, bastard. Kill me._

In the end, cold hatred had won over the impulse to spill the blood of the traitor. What was it that Lord Snow had said? _There is no greater punishment than being forced to live._ To breathe, to remember, to dream.

The smirk faded from his lips. “I should take this bow and shoot you full of arrows, bastard. See if there's any truth to the talk that you can't be killed.”

“You're welcome to try, Greyjoy.” Snow's expression didn't change one bit. Why would it, though? Theon's gaze slid over the faint scars left by some bird of prey, lingered on the broad shoulders, the firm set of mouth. A man who'd tasted many a battle and emerged victorious wasn't going to be riled by empty threats from a disgraced princeling.

And they both knew how empty Theon's words truly were. _You're welcome to try, Greyjoy … but you have neither the guts, nor the will to actually do it, do you?_ Snow held his gaze, and Theon felt his cheeks flush hot with humiliation. _Do you, thrall?_

His fingers reached for the weapon, tightened on the polished wood, then, just as quickly, relaxed. No, Snow didn't need to put him in manacles and lock him away in a dungeon to ensure obedience. Guilt and resentment, twined together, bound Theon to his captor as surely as a collar and a chain would have.

“Take it and get out.”

The cold tone matched the scorn in Snow's eyes. Defeated, Theon grabbed the bow and turned for the door. A rabid dog, Stannis had called him. Now, it seemed, well on the way to becoming Lord Snow's dog.

***

“Turncloak. Hope the walkers get you.”

All of that was mumbled under breath, so as not to draw unwanted attention. Theon lowered the bow and glanced over his shoulder. “My, the Night's Watch finest, I see. Why leave it to the walkers, though? Why don't you take matters into your own hands?”

The face beneath the black hood was young, the chin barely darkened by the shadow of the first stubble. _Really, Greyjoy? Picking fights with children?_ Another, much more chilling thought slipped into his mind. _I've killed boys younger than this one._

For a moment, it truly seemed the boy would seize the chance to prove himself. He glowered at Theon, his hand drifting to the hilt of the sword. Then, to Theon's surprise, the gloved fingers stilled. “Don't want to dirty my hands with a shit stain like you, turncloak.” With that, the boy spat onto the frozen ground and walked away.

Theon watched him go. _Is that so?_ The boy turned his head, stole a quick, nervous look at an officer supervising the recruits at their sword practice. A telling little gesture, which showed that the fear of punishment for breaching the military discipline and spoiling for a fight still managed to rein in youthful recklessness. Perhaps Castle Black wasn't in for another mutiny in the ranks any time soon, then.

The clang of steel mingled with muffled grunts, curses, and an occasional word of praise. Theon let the noise wash over him as he went back to his interrupted exercise. Pick an arrow, draw, release the string – a rhythm simple enough to empty one's mind of all thoughts, all the images, all the memories that lurked on the edges of consciousness. 

His surroundings narrowed to the straw butt and the black circle in its middle. Carefully, he angled the bow and waited, paying attention to any changes in the air that might herald a sudden gust of wind. When all was calm, he let fly. 

Swift and deadly, his arrow struck true. Theon chose the next one; it cut the distance in the blink of an eye, and landed so close to the first shaft that their fletchings brushed together.

Snow crunched under booted feet, announcing the presence of yet another spectator. “Not bad.”

“You think so?” Theon pulled the string to his cheek. “How about this one?”

A small voice insisted that he was being pathetic, and his thirst for praise made him no better than a mummer performing a cheap trick to amuse the crowd. _So what? To hell with that._ The bow flexed in his grip as he lifted his fingers from the string.

The recoil vibrated through his arm; whistling softly, the arrow sped forth towards its mark. Close … Closer. _Now._ With a loud, dry crack, it splintered one of the shafts protruding from the butt, sawing through the length of wood till it buried itself in bull's-eye. An excellent shot.

“Not bad.”

_And I shouldn't expect any other verdict from you, sweet sister._ He didn't feel the sting of indignation, however – perhaps because Asha's words lacked real malice. Somewhere between their retreat from Winterfell, voyage to Pyke, return to the North, the battles, captivity, and the Wall, they had learned to endure each other's company. 

He turned to face her. Asha met his gaze, a half-smile teasing her lips. “I see the lord commander has finally decided to make use of you.” She lightly tapped his bow with her finger. “Even though I warned him he might well come to regret it.”

“You did?” Theon forced himself to sound nonchalant. “How kind of you.” 

They lapsed into silence. A few snowflakes whirled lazily around them; ahead, in the looming shadow of the Wall, blunted swords flashed as the sparring match continued. 

“I gave my word to Stannis and Lord Snow,” Asha mused, not taking her eyes off the combatants. “That me and my men would help them fight the Others. Madness.”

_Madness and wisdom both._ If, by some miracle, they all survived the coming months – or even years – of battles against the Others, the King and Asha might forge a more solid alliance, thus paving the way for a peace between the Iron Islands and the North. _A lasting peace, provided my sister takes back Pyke and the Driftwood Crown from Euron._

“What are you going to do?” Asha asked. “You aren't bound by any mad promises.”

“Stay.” He answered after a weighted pause. _Aye, I'm a turncloak, but I won't run away like a craven._

Asha cut him a shrewd look. “Stay and repent? Be Lord Snow's hostage? That won't make your wolf king and his brothers any less dead.” 

“It's not ...”

A horn blared somewhere atop the Wall; then, the call sounded again, low and piercing. 

Barely had the notes dwindled to a faint echo, than orders were being shouted, and men rushed to the gate. There, the great iron chains groaned, the massive bolts were lifted, and the entrance to the tunnel underneath the ice yawned open.

After what felt like hours, ragged figures started emerging from the darkness. Theon and Asha moved closer to get a better look. Women, children, and a handful of men, all with gaunt cheeks and empty eyes. The last to pass through the tunnel was a grey-bearded rider, wrapped in furs and slumped in the saddle. His horse seemed ready to collapse, its ribs shifting under the skin with every shallow breath.

A ranger grabbed the horse's bridle. “Tormund?” 

The rider lifted his head. Laughter had once carved fine lines around the mouth and eyes – the details all the more striking, now that hunger and exhaustion had also left their own, much deeper, marks on his face. “That's all of them. There's naught but death out there.”


End file.
